Page 47 of Worth the Wait

"Small step up, about six inches," I continue, resisting the urge to touch her, to guide her physically rather than verbally. "Then two steps left."

We move through the course with remarkable speed, finishing in record time.

"Excellent teamwork," the facilitator enthuses as Tarryn removes her blindfold, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. "You two must work together often."

"Every day," Christine interjects, appearing beside us with clipboard in hand. "They've been inseparable at the office."

Tarryn's cheeks flush slightly, but her voice remains steady. "The Westfield account requires close collaboration."

Throughout the remaining exercises, I can’t take my focus off her. The way her head falls back slightly when she laughs. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The small bead of sweat at her temple finally trickling its way down her face to her neck.

I watch her swipe it away, wishing it was my tongue.

By the time we break for the afternoon strategy session, the tension between us has ratcheted up several notches, each fleeting touch and shared glance adding to the smoldering awareness that threatens to ignite with the slightest spark.

"The phasedimplementation allows for strategic adaptation," I explain, highlighting a section of the presentation displayed on the conference room screen.

Tarryn steps forward, building on my point. "This creates a liability shield."

We move through the Westfield expansion presentation, answering a few questions and getting feedback from the team on how we can improve and build upon what we’ve already established.

As the meeting concludes, I catch Tarryn watching me from across the room but of course, Christine's voice breaks the moment. "Cocktail reception at seven on the lakeside terrace," she announces, gathering her materials with precise movements. "Howard specifically requested everyone's attendance."

Tarryn nods, breaking eye contact as she collects her notes. "I'll see you both there."

As she exits the conference room, my gaze follows the confident sway of her full hips, remembering with visceralclarity how perfectly she fit against me in that conference room. I only have to survive the next few hours of cocktails, dinner, and then the night in adjacent rooms with only a thin connecting door between us.

Professional restraint has never felt more like self-inflicted torture.

The lakeside terrace is beautiful.It’s a large glass-enclosed room out over the lake with a massive adjoining deck. I accept a glass of scotch from a passing server, scanning the gathering for the one person who's occupied my thoughts all day.

When Tarryn finally arrives, my jaw is on the fucking floor.

The burgundy dress she’s wearing hugs her curves like it’s molded over them, the fabric shimmering under the terrace lights. Her chestnut hair cascades in loose waves past her shoulders, and for a moment, I forget we're at a client cocktail party surrounded by colleagues.

"You're staring," she murmurs, approaching with a glass of champagne already in hand.

"Can you blame me?" My eyes track the gentle sway of her hips as she moves closer. "That dress should be fucking illegal."

A delicate flush spreads across her cheeks, but her eyes darken, a naughty little smirk on her lips. She leans in, pretending to adjust my tie, her breath warm against my ear.

"Wait until you see what's underneath it."

Before I can respond, she slips away to greet Howard Westfield, leaving me with an uncomfortable stiffy in my tailored pants and fifteen minutes of excruciating small talk to navigate.

I watch her from across the terrace—the elegant curve of her neck as she laughs at something someone says, the subtle shift of the silk over her ass when she reaches for a canapé. Every movement feels deliberate, calculated to drive me absolutely fucking insane.

When our paths cross again at the bar, I brush against her deliberately, my hand skimming the small of her back.

"Two more hours of this," I whisper, my lips barely grazing her ear, "and then I'm going to taste every fucking inch of you."

She attempts to hide it, but I see the sharp intake of breath.

Success.

"Promises, promises," she challenges, sipping her champagne with maddening composure.

The party becomesan elegant nightmare of patience and self-fucking-restraint. During a group discussion about international compliance, I stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my heat and the subtle brush of my knuckle against her spine as I lift my glass to take a drink.

---